


Our Love's a Protective Poison

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gosalyn is Drake's biological child, Implied/Referenced Abortion, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: Gosalyn decides to seduce her father's new boyfriend in a passive-aggressive attempt to hurt him.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack, Launchpad McQuack/Gosalyn Mallard
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	Our Love's a Protective Poison

At the tender age of thirteen, Gosalyn Mallard lost her virginity to her bumbling twenty-three-year-old mathematics tutor.

She initiated it. 

The tutor was a kind, soft-spoken duck with silken brown feathers that would fall over his eyes as he leaned over her textbook to run his finger along one of the word problems printed on the crisp, white pages. Always somehow overly enthusiastic about something as tedious as math, he would get so caught up in his lessons he would barely even give her a glance because weren’t numbers so exciting! She preferred staring at him rather than the book. He had such beautiful eyes and they crinkled endearingly at the corner whenever he laughed at one of his own corny little jokes.

She didn’t know much about him. Her father had hired him without her opinion nor consent. No high school honor student was good enough for his little girl. She didn’t even know where her dad had found him, just that he attended the prestigious St. Canard University, a poor graduate student in need of some easy money. As if anything ever associated with Gosalyn Mallard would be easy. She didn’t know what he was majoring in. She didn’t know if he had a girlfriend or a wife or a puppy waiting at home for him. She didn't even know his first name. She just knew he was handsome and sweet and would be so easy to manipulate because he always was. Whether she was lying about why her homework was unfinished or why she was late for one of their appointments, he always smiled kindly at her and accepted her phony apologies.

“No worries, we have all evening,” he’d say, rolling up the sleeves of yet another pastel-colored button-down shirt. “Let’s do some math.”

He had very nice arms. Slim without being bony. The feathers were the same color as the ones on his head and she would watch the way the muscles moved beneath them as he scratched out equations with a mechanical pencil. Smiling, always smiling.

And so damn sincere about it, too. Who can smile that sincerely, for that long, that often? He had continued to smile when she snuggled up to him that day, pressing her thigh against his as she feigned interest in his words. He continued to smile when she leaned forward, pressing her still budding breasts against his shoulder, pretending to lean over to watch him at work. And he continued to smile when she slipped her hand down and cupped him between the legs.

Admittedly, by then his smile had become much more forced. Broken, one could say.

“Gosalyn, what are you doing? That is inappropriate, please move your hand.”

Gosalyn lied and told him it wasn’t her first time. Then, later, with her virgin blood drying on her thighs, she told him the truth and said he didn’t have anything to worry about, her father would never find out, and besides, hadn’t she been the one to start it? But he was a coward of the highest grade and he sat on the edge of her bed afterward, his back turned to her, and cried into his hands. He lamented over his desire for imprisonment and the danger of somebody like himself ever being allowed to work with children.

He never returned. Gosalyn doesn’t know exactly what happened to him but considering nobody ever came to her about him, never asked for medical kits or testimony, he probably didn’t receive any punishment for her precociousness. 

She felt some relief over it. Really, the guy was just a victim of circumstances. A product of her father’s overprotectiveness. And he had been so kind to her.

To some, Drake Mallard might be considered the ideal father. Doting, loving, proud. Always the most expensive dresses, the best tutors, the most prestigious private schools. Her bedroom was large and lavishly decorated with all the nicest furniture. When it came to his daughter he acted as if he were an A-list celebrity instead of a C-lister.

“Nothing is too much for my baby girl.”

They met on the set of some teenage drama mini-series that Gosalyn has never bothered to watch. She doesn’t want to watch it. If she did, she’d have to see her father, the former teenage heartthrob, and her mother, the woman who had wanted to kill her. Her father was only sixteen when he got her pregnant, a last-ditch attempt at demonstrating his heterosexuality that had ended up with him hooking up with one of the male stagehands. She had been older, nearly twenty, but she didn’t want the responsibility.

“She was going to destroy your egg,” Drake had admitted one night when Gosalyn was ten. He had been drinking bourbon and weeping alone in the sunken sitting area of their living room because some stupid artist award he had been hoping to win had gone to somebody more talented than her pathetic father. She had taken advantage of his drunken state and his melancholy mood to finally weasel the truth out of him. “I begged her not to. I cried so hard that night and she just, she just didn’t care. I had to threaten her. I was only fifteen when we started seeing each other, she could have gone to jail over it. She agreed to sign over custody and I agreed to sign the nondisclosure agreement and, well, here you are.”

Somehow, it hadn’t surprised her in the slightest that her own mother had wanted her dead.

It also explained a lot about her father’s overprotective nature. He had been watching over her since she was an embryo.

It doesn’t excuse it, however. An explanation is not an excuse. And that man had made her life a living hell for as long as she could remember.

He moved her from schools regularly, fearing the discovery of her true identity because if anybody knew the daughter of the great Drake Mallard was in attendance, they could use it as a way to…what? Hold her ransom? Blackmail him?

She was never allowed to go anywhere on her own. No window-shopping alone at the mall, no lazy afternoons sipping coffee at the nearest Starducks as she paged through a book of poetry. She hadn’t even been allowed to sign up for any after school activities. There were boys in those activities, and he knew how boys were, he had been one after all, and he didn’t want her to make the same mistakes he and her mother had. Do as I say not as I do.

The fucking hypocrisy of it all. As if becoming a father at sixteen hadn’t been proof enough of his depravity, she has eyes and ears of her own. She knows how to use a computer. She remembers when she was young and how he used to come back from work, sniffling, his eyelids red and his smile lopsided. She saw the men he used to bring home when he thought she was too small to create lasting memories of the encounter. Never the same one twice, all of them older than her father but handsome and broad across the shoulders. Sometimes they would stoop down to greet her, telling her she was as cute as her daddy, though she has never looked anything like him with her own brown feathers, green eyes, and small beak. All inherited from the mother she has never met.

She saw her, once, sometime around second or third grade. On one of the rare occasions when her father brought her to one of the award shows. The witch had sat three rows ahead of them and when she turned around and spotted Gosalyn, the older woman had looked absolutely shocked. She had stared at Gosalyn, unmoving until her father spotted the woman and suddenly Gosalyn was being carried away by one of her father’s colleagues.

Colleagues. Because her father never had any real friends. Oh, he had “friends” when she was younger, but not _friends_.

She never knew exactly what her father did with those “friends.” She remembers the noises that used to come from the room adjacent to hers, back when he had kept her close in the small, cozy nursery. When she was five, he had moved her into the large, airy bedroom on the opposite side of the staircase, and transformed her old room into his private workout space. She hated the new bedroom, she hated the coldness of it, and she hated being so far from her father. In the end, it didn’t matter. She continued to sleep with her dad until she was nearly ten. Except when one of the “friends” came over and then she was forced to sleep alone in her own bed. At least for a little while, because she would almost always wake up in the middle of the night to her father carrying her back to his own bed, cooing at her to go back to sleep, it was still the middle of the night.

Later, when she was older, she searched her father online and she read the articles and saw the pictures. In his late teens and early twenties, he had been a joke to the media. A promising young star that burnt out too soon on cocaine and casual sex. He had been discovered too late to be afforded the reprieve of the child stars. The pictures were unflattering, showing him hanging off the arms of men twice his size and three times his age, with a drooping smile and white stuff around his nostrils.

Yet here she is, stuck at home, not even allowed to stay after school a couple of days a week because she might get up to “no good.”

Anything worth doing there she could do at home, according to her father. Dance lessons with the best instructors. Tennis classes with the best coaches. Math sessions with the best tutors. It was his fault that the poor graduate student had gotten dragged into any of this. If her father had just given her a little breathing room, had allowed her the same freedoms he had been allotted at her age, she could have found some guy her own age to have sex with.

It became easier once she hit high school. The high school boys were less nervous, less finicky. Free periods meant for studying became quickies in the second story bathroom by the old science room that had been blocked off since an experiment had gone wrong sometime in the early 90s. She would skip lunch and spend the time with one of a handful of different seniors in Mr. Newman’s history classroom, knowing the balding old man always left campus for two periods in a row, only returning just in time to open the door for the seventh-period sophomore class. The boy’s locker room was always good for a romp first thing in the morning, if she arrived right when the boy’s track team was just finishing up.

None of these trysts developed into real relationships. Two people can’t form a relationship out of sex and lingering looks in the hallway. Her father tracked everything she did on her phone; she couldn’t even risk sending a couple of fully dressed selfies without raising questions. The other girls at the school took the bus or walked home which would possibly have given her more opportunity but she was not afforded such luxury. Somebody was always there to pick her up. Sometimes her father, when he was home and not off filming one of his movies, more often one of the two servants he had kept under his employment for as long as Gosalyn could remember.

The first time she saw him, he was standing next to her father’s black Lexus, looking around with a dopey, confused expression on his face. Tall, muscular, a handsome face. He had most certainly not been the elderly man with the bad toupee that normally came for her but there was still something about him that came off as very servile. Frowning, she approached him, her backpack hanging over one shoulder.

“Where’s David?”

“Oh!” The guy’s face lit up and he smiled in a way that was so genuine that she couldn’t help but think of that young man in her bedroom three years ago. She could tell, just by looking at this guy, he was just as pure as her tutor had been. And probably just as easily manipulated. “You’re Gosalyn, right?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. Waiting for him to answer her question.

“Your father asked me to come pick you up. My name is Launchpad. Launchpad McQuack, nice to meetcha.”

His hands were giant, probably half the size of Gosalyn’s head, but his touch was very gentle when he reached out to shake her hand. Half of her had been tempted to ask for her father’s codeword – their secret password they had used when she was a small child to make sure that no stranger ever tried to snatch her. The other half of her decided she was perfectly fine if this hunk of man decided abducting her was worth the trouble

Her father wasn’t away that day. He had just been stuck in meetings with some executives until early evening which meant he was able to make it home in time for dinner. As was his policy, if they were both home in the evening they ate together. He returned to the house with takeout from a Thai place near the offices and they watched reruns of Dexter together as they ate because it was one of the few shows they could both stomach with their wildly varying tastes. He liked to complain that if he had been older when it had been released, he could have gotten the lead.

“So that new guy,” she brought up during one of the boring talking scenes. “Lunchpad?”

“Launchpad,” her father corrected mildly.

“Yeah, him,” she went on. She stabbed at some of the noodles in the takeout box with her plastic fork. “Did you really hire him to replace David? You realize the guy drives like a madman, right?”

“I do,” Drake had agreed. There had been a strange warmth to his voice. When she glanced over at her father’s normally placid face he had been smiling a very strange smile. “And I didn’t hire him to replace David. David threw out his back last night, so I asked him to help out for a few days. Launchpad is a friend, not an employee.”

“A friend?” Gosalyn asked, accusingly. She hadn’t heard him refer to anybody as a “friend” in a long time, not since he had stopped bringing the guys home when she was about eight. She squinted at her father. Sensing her eyes on him, he glanced at her. “You don’t have friends. You’ve never had friends.”

Her father sighed. He turned to her, pulling one leg up beneath him, and spilled the truth.

“More than a friend,” he admitted, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. I just didn’t want to introduce him to you until I was sure this wasn’t just a fling. I thought maybe if I had him pick you up today, you’d be able to judge him without that bias of knowing he’s dating your father. Did, did you like him?”

“He seems okay,” she shrugged. “You like him?”

“A lot,” Drake admitted. He swallowed loudly. “I think I might be in love with him, to be perfectly honest. I, I think he might be the one. He makes me really happy and I’ve been thinking of asking him to move in with us…if that’s okay? I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Do it,” Gosalyn urges instantly. “Ask him to move in. If that’s what will make you happy, I totally support it.”

Internally, she was plotting. 

* * *

After the talk with her father, Gosalyn had assumed that his burly new boytoy would be moving in with them almost immediately, perhaps even the next day. She knew if she was as in love with somebody as her father claimed to be that is what she would have done. It ended up taking a couple of weeks. Maybe her father kept chickening out on popping the big question or maybe Launchpad was indebted to a hardass landlord that was giving him shit about getting out of his lease. Whatever it was, it wasn’t until the next weekend that he showed up at their door, arriving at eight in the morning on a Saturday with the first enormous box in his arms and a giant grin on his face.

Neither David nor the Mexican woman that cooked and cleaned around the house worked weekends, and her father was still fast asleep upstairs from a late night on the job, so Gosalyn had the pleasure of welcoming the boyfriend to their home. She did so in a silky pink nightgown that she was a little too tall to pull off, exposing more of her upper thighs than her father would deem appropriate.

“Dad’s asleep,” she said, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “He got in super late, probably won’t be up until noon.”

“No problem,” the giant of a man replied, seemingly oblivious of what she was wearing or how she was talking. He deposited the box on the ground near the front door. “I’m good unloading the truck on my own.”

“I could help,” she suggested, taking a step towards him. She had purposely chosen one of her nighties with the wide collar so it would fall over her shoulder, exposing herself in a way she knew bordered somewhere between cute and sexy. “I can bear more weight than you’d think for my size.”

“Aw, you’re a sweet kid,” Launchpad smiled, giving her head a pat as if she were a Labrador. “But don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.”

He made himself at home within days. William of Orange, her father’s old ginger tabby cat, attached himself immediately to the newcomer. No matter where he was on the property the cat seemed to always be there. Whether he was napping on the couch or out working on one of her dad’s cars in the garage, the damn cat was always able to locate some spot of sunshine to curl up into.

At first, it had been strange to hear the sounds coming from the garage. The building had always been a place to house her father’s numerous cars and nothing more. If he had needed work done on any of the vehicles, he took them to a place and paid other people to do it. He was about as good with his hands as Gosalyn.

Launchpad though. That seems to be his thing. Working with his hands. Probably knows how to use them in the bedroom too; it would certainly explain the perpetually goofy smile on her father’s face whenever they were together. But cars were his specialty. Whenever her father wasn’t around, there was a high probability that Launchpad could be found in the garage. She didn’t know exactly what he was doing to her father’s cars, but he seemed excited about it, nonetheless.

She stopped to watch him sometimes. She’d make sure to show up wearing short denim cut-offs a size or two too small and shirts that showed off her ample cleavage. Not that it mattered, he never looked at her. Not more than a quick, friendly glance, sometimes with a smile or wave to accompany it. No matter her efforts, he never treated her like a woman but like a kid. He called her Gos, his own made up nickname that nobody had ever called her in her life, and would ruffle her hair playfully at least once a day. He was perfectly capable of holding a conversation while he worked and he would ask her about things he must have thought teenage girls were interested in – music, television, movies. The boring things her peers gushed about.

Not wanting to disappoint him, she answered to the best of her ability, but she didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to watch him work.

There was something positively erotic about the way he handled his tools. The way his wrist turned as he tightened a bolt. The way he would grunt as he pushed or pulled at a part that just refused to budge. The way sweat would slowly drip down his forehead, the stuffiness of the garage stifling at times. Yet he never removed his shirt. A white tank top that showed off his arms and every bulge of his impressive six-pack. It was almost pointless to even wear the thing, considering how thin and skintight it was, but it always stayed in place.

“Gos, can you hand me that Phillips head,” he’d ask, breathing heavily, bent over the engine with his tail in the air. She’d do as he asked, making sure to brush the tips of her fingers over his. He never acknowledged the touch.

The large duck thought of her as his own daughter. This is something she became aware of pretty quickly. He treated her very similar to how her own father treated her, albeit with more leniency. He would bring her his homemade fluffernutter sandwiches as she studied at her desk and stop by her room whenever he went out to a store, asking if she needed anything or if she just wanted to come along for the ride. She was sure he liked it when she was around. Her father was gone so often; in the afternoons, it was often just the two of them.

“Don’t you have a job?” Gosalyn had asked him once as they split a bag of chips and a container of cheese dip over that old superhero show her father was also a big fan of. She had always found it tedious, but Launchpad claimed it was his favorite show and she wanted him to like her. At least her dad had forced her to watch enough of it when she was a kid that she could name all the characters and fake interest in the trite nonsense.

“Not allowed to work right now,” he had explained, looking abashed by his proclamation. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You have a heart attack or something?” Gosalyn had prodded for more information. She had just assumed her father’s boytoy was a made man, cruising on free money and sex until something better came along.

“Nah,” he shook his head and laughed. “I crashed on the job. I feel fine but the doc said something was up with my back and I should take a couple months off just to be safe. Let it heal up.”

“Crashed?” Gosalyn asked. She thought about how _right_ he had looked standing in front of the car, holding the door open that first day. As if he had been made for that job “So you’re actually a chauffeur?”

“Chauffeur? Oh, no. I’m a pilot.”

A…pilot?

What an absolutely terrifying idea. She asked him about what sort of flying he did. Had he been in the military? Did he work for a big airline? What sort of planes? Did he transport people? Cargo?

A stunt pilot! For the movies! She shouldn’t have been so surprised by that answer. It made perfect sense.

“So, you met my dad on a set?” Gosalyn asked. She was trying to think of any movie he may have mentioned that featured an airplane. Wasn’t he filming some period peace a few months ago? As a straight-A history student, she was pretty sure there weren’t any planes in French Revolution-era Paris.

“Nah,” he shook his head. He dug his hand into the bag of chips, looking for any remaining full-size ones. They had all but destroyed the bag in the last hour. “We met at the studio Halloween party.”

“Oh, that,” she huffed, sitting back with her arms folded petulantly. She hoped she looked cute. “I wanted to go but Dad won’t take me. I had a costume planned out and everything.”

“It’s just for adults,” Launchpad explained calmly, _paternally_. “No kids allowed. Give it a few years and I’ll escort you myself.”

“Dad was going to those parties when he was my age,” she reminded the older man. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and whispered conspiratorially. “He was going when he was younger, even.”

“Yeah, well,” he laughed awkwardly. “I mean, things were different back then. Your father was different. There’s a lot of...adult things happening at those parties and he just wants to protect you.”

“He always wants to protect me,” she rolled her eyes. She turned to him suddenly, sitting up to cross her legs beneath herself as if she were gossiping with another girl at a sleepover. “What kind of adult things? Sex, drugs, and rock and roll?”

“Er, more sex, drugs, and alcohol. There’s music but it’s just sort of in the background.”

“Mmm,” she considered this information. It wasn’t that she hadn’t assumed what was going on at those parties, but her father has always refused to speak about them. Ever since he disappeared for a “long shoot” a few years back he’s been clean from drugs so she had assumed he must still go to the parties for the sex. “So which of the three were you there for?”

“Three what?” Launchpad asked blankly.

“The sex, the drugs, or the alcohol?”

“Oh! Uh, none of them,” he stuttered, face going red. “I mean, I had a couple drinks, but that wasn’t why I went. I was, uh, schmoozing, I guess? Looking for directors in need of a good pilot. I’m not a big name in the industry, I need to put myself out there to get jobs.”

“And did you try to schmooze my dad?”

“Your dad? Nah. Actors don’t have that much say in that sort of thing.” He had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he wasn’t even seeing the television though he was staring right at the screen. Probably thinking of that night with her father. Disgusting. “I ran into him at the bar. It seemed like fate. I was dressed up as the Liquidator and he was dressed up as Bushroot and I kind of gushed over his costume and then he asked me if I wanted to water his, his- He asked if I wanted a drink of his water, because we were drinking shots, right?”

Right. As if Gosalyn doesn’t know how much of a slut her own father is. How would Launchpad react if she asked him if he made sure to wear a condom that night because her dad has been ridden more times than a roadhouse bar’s mechanical bull?

“I helped him with his hair,” she said instead, voice bright, cheerful. “It was a wig, if you didn’t know. He didn’t spray it purple or anything.”

“Oh, yeah, I was aware,” Launchpad confirmed with a nod. “You did a good job, it looked good on him. Really good.”

Yeah, she was sure he thought it did. They probably fucked within twenty minutes of meeting. With the costumes still on. He probably snatched the wig off on accident when he tried to grab her father by his hair. She’d heard the rumors that her father was a kinky fuck and she assumed they’re probably true.

But she was sixteen and he wouldn’t even acknowledge that he was doing her father. Had he ever been around teenagers? Did he know how their minds work? Would he be surprised to know she wasn’t a virgin? Would knowing so make it easier or harder? Some guys are really into virgins.

It would probably be easier to do this if the two men weren’t going at it like rabbits. It wasn’t even just at night, either. Even though she couldn’t hear them from her own room, that didn’t stop her from sneaking over to his side of the staircase and listening in on them. She had no idea how her father had ever thought he was interested in women at one point in his life, the fact she was ever conceived is a miracle because he really seemed to love a dick in his ass. It was embarrassing, truthfully. The way he moaned and begged for it. Gosalyn couldn’t imagine being like that. To just totally lack any sense of dignity.

Sometimes she heard them at night when she would get up to use the bathroom or go downstairs for a drink. Sometimes she heard them in the morning before she went to the kitchen for breakfast. Sometimes, if her father wasn’t working for some reason, she even caught them going at it in the afternoon, right after she was dropped off by David after school.

She couldn’t help but wonder if the sex is all they had going for each other. Her father isn’t a genius, but he’s heads and shoulders above this guy on the intelligence meter. What could they possibly talk about except that stupid tv show they both like? On the other hand, her father was starting to age, the lines on his face more prominent than they should be after years of partying, working, and carrying on as a single father. He was only thirty-two but he looked closer to forty. Launchpad was thirty but looked at least five years younger than that. Her father didn’t look terribly old yet but at this rate, he wasn’t going to age well.

When Launchpad went back to the doctor’s office for another checkup, the doctor informed him that he was doing better but that he was still not comfortable with his patient going back to work just yet. The insurance companies considered the diagnosis a liability and her father’s boytoy put his life and career on hold for another six months.

Shortly after, Launchpad showed his first hint of deception. When her father was out of town for just two nights, Launchpad drove her to the airport and took her into the air on a friend’s airplane he had access to.

“Don’t tell him I let you come along,” he told her afterward. “If he knew I took you flying with me he’d throw me out on my rear.”

It was fun. Launchpad was a better pilot than a driver and she had not been scared at all the entire time. The plane was only capable of fitting three people and she had to wear a headset the entire time, but it was a cool experience. Flying through the air like one of their ancient ancestors.

And Launchpad looked really hot in his flying gear. A brown leather jacket with matching boots that reached nearly to his knees.

It was that day that renewed Gosalyn’s hope in her efforts. If Launchpad could be persuaded to lie to her dad about flying, he could be persuaded to do other things.

Still, it took months before she finally had her big opportunity. Her father had been shooting a movie in the area for a good month when he and the rest of the crew had to pack up and fly to Hawaii on a sudden script change. If it had been summer, he would have brought Gosalyn along, but it was late April and she had school.

Launchpad, sensing her misery at being left behind yet again, offered to stay home with her.

“It will just be two weeks,” he reasoned, rubbing his hand comfortingly up and down her father’s bicep. “And it’s not like you’ll be around anyway, you’ll be too busy on set. We can all take a vacation together once the school year ends.”

Her father had still seemed depressed over the idea that his lover wasn’t coming with him, but he agreed it made more sense for him to stay here and keep his daughter company. He kissed both of them goodbye the morning before he left, telling Gosalyn to be good and Launchpad to call him if anything went wrong.

And finally, Gosalyn had him alone.

After living with the guy for six months, she knew that subtlety was lost on him. No coy flirtations, no skimpy clothes, or batting her eyelashes, would make a dent in the guy’s denseness. So, she went for the direct approach.

She waited a week, to give him time to become sexually frustrated. He wasn’t going to be willing to jump in the sack with her if he had just fucked her father that morning. Then she went to him in the middle of the night.

He was sleeping alone in her father’s bed. A giant thing, a California King that was big enough to make even Launchpad look like a normal size person in the middle of it. He had been curled up around a body pillow roughly the same size as her father’s body, looking about as content as could be, when she showed up to ruin his life.

She said his name quietly as she sat on the edge of the bed wearing a skimpy lace nightgown, hiding the fact she was wearing no panties from her prey. He awoke with a start, bleary-eyed, blinking at the clock beside the bed. The moonlight outside washed over the bed and the man but missed Gosalyn completely, leaving her a dark shadow to the side that he could barely see.

“What? Gosalyn?”

“I had a nightmare,” she lied, whimpering like a small child. She could do little to trigger a sexual response from him but a parental one had proved easy in the past. “I always crawl into bed with Dad when I have a nightmare but he’s not here. Can I sleep with you?”

“Of course, kiddo,” Launchpad agreed. He lifted the blanket for her to join him.

She curled up to his chest and he had been so damn big it had felt like getting into bed with her father all over again. He used to feel this big to her. When he slung an arm around her it had felt like being hugged by a giant anaconda. But it was also nice. Comfortable. Secure feeling.

Knowing that her father must sleep like this, experience this feeling of security and love on a nightly basis, filled her with an inner rage she hadn’t known she was capable of. She trembled against him, so full of this anger, and he must have thought it was because of her fear from the nightmare because he cooed at her, mumbling about how everything was okay as he drifted back off to sleep.

She waited for a long time. Until she was sure he was very deep in his sleep. Until his mind was fuzzy, and his body paralyzed. Then she very carefully slid her hand down into his pajama pants and began the careful task of bringing him to hardness.

It wasn’t as simple as grabbing at him and just pumping him. It had to be gradual, subtle. She didn’t want him to wake up half hard. She didn’t want her touch to force him back into consciousness. She wanted him to wake up as if he had been in the midst of a wet dream, roaring and ready to go, painfully hard so that he would not object to her advances.

Luckily, he proved to be a deep sleeper. He didn’t awaken until he was hard and halfway down her throat. She felt him stirring before he reached full consciousness. His hand was heavy but lax against the back of her head, his sighs languid.

“I thought you were in Hawaii,” his voice came out thick and slow. Half asleep still. She couldn’t tell from down where she was, but he probably hadn’t even opened his eyes yet. It would only be seconds before he came to his head and realized she wasn’t her father.

She made a split-second decision to go for it. Pulling back from the hard dick in her mouth, she swung one leg over his hips and mounted him, sliding down onto his length before he even knew what was going on. The force which she landed left her wincing. Even aroused as she was, he was so large that his cockhead punched at her cervix, causing a deep ache to vibrate through her insides.

His eyes shot open, flying to Gosalyn’s face.

“Gosalyn!” Launchpad got out, pulling himself up to his elbows. “What are you-”

She interrupted him with a kiss. She couldn’t reach him from this position, he was so large that even sitting up he towered over so, so she used her arms to pull him down, cutting off his objections with her mouth. Despite the pain, she began to move, grinding her hips down on his. Needing to distract him before he tried to push her away. She was so turned on that her fluids were sopping down, smearing into his pubic feathers. He breathed heavily into her mouth, quick, panic-sounding breaths. His hands went up to touch her breasts through her thin nightgown.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t had sex in a week. Maybe he had secretly found Gosalyn attractive the whole time and just hadn’t shown it. Maybe he was just confused in his half-conscious state. Whatever the reason, he didn’t push her off of him. Even when she broke the kiss and released him so that she could press her palms into his stomach to steady herself, he didn’t try to pull away. He fell back onto the pillows behind him, one arm thrown over one of his eyes, and just watched her with the other. He was throbbing inside of her and she could feel it, the size of him filling her so completely.

It was exhausting work, her legs trembled beneath herself at the exertion needed to pull off such a long, thick cock. Whenever she slammed back down, she did so violently, just to give her legs a break. Eventually, Launchpad came into his mind enough to help her, pushing his hips up to meet her and then taking over entirely. He sat up, pushing her onto her back with the motion, and took over the job. She could do little more than take it, spread open as wide as she was. The pain never faded, not entirely, he was just too long and every time he thrust deep, he would hit that place inside her that made her ache. It was like being torn apart.

But it was also good. The length may have been too much, but the thickness was amazing and before long the tables had turned and she was the one moaning incoherently, unable to think as she took the railing of her life. So much better than teenage boys and virgin tutors. He was so large on top of her, crushing her into the mattress, too large to even get her arms around him. She scratched at his back and called him daddy, knowing he would like that, and he did, the intensity of his thrusts so forceful she would have worried about breaking the bed if her head wasn’t spinning.

She screamed when she came, locking her legs around his waist, but he kept going, and then there was a new sort of pain. She wasn’t used to coming first and she had never felt the experience of being fucked through the sensitivity of post-orgasm. She jerked beneath him, trying to get him off her, the enormous beast, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Or maybe he knew how women’s bodies worked because, before long, she was dripping wet again and approaching her second orgasm without even realizing that was possible so quickly after the first.

He came inside her. She had been too dazed and boneless even to ask him to pull out before finishing. When he pulled out, she was a sticky mess, the semen seeping out hot and fluid. He asked, as an afterthought, if she was on the pill.

She said yes.

It was a lie. Her father would have her ovaries removed before putting her on the pill.

He didn’t leave that night as the tutor had done. Though he did spend a long time afterward sitting up in bed with his head in his hands, muttering to himself. Moaning about how he was the worse boyfriend in the world. He loved Drake, he wanted to marry him, how could he cheat on him, and with his own daughter?

He asked her not to tell her father and she promised not to. Her father didn’t need to know about this. It was enough that she knew. It was enough to know that she had forced the apparent love of his life to cheat on him. It was enough to know she had created distrust. She had ruined their relationship and planted the seeds of destruction with the hole between her legs.

Things were never the same between Gosalyn and Launchpad after that night. He never called her Gos again and he avoided her whenever possible. No more nights on the couch with television and chips. No more talks in the garage. No more fluffernutters or trips to the store.

Two months later, Gosalyn pushed out one single light brown egg. She was alone for the entire ordeal and she bit down on her pillow to hold in the screams of agony. There was blood, so much blood. She made sure to do it on a towel on the floor to stop it from getting everywhere. The pain was so bad that she passed out briefly at the end, right as she reached her fullest dilation and the egg passed.

She thought she was only out for a few seconds but there was no way to tell. It took her six hours to lay the thing and she lost track of time sometime between nine and ten at night.

The clock read 3:42. She had class in the morning.

For a long while, she lay on the floor, panting, the blood-streaked egg between her thighs. Then she removed her clothes, wrapped up the egg in her blood-stained nightgown, and wrapped it up again in the towel.

She bunched up a washcloth and shoved it into her panties to soak up the blood and pulled on a pair of jeans and hoodie. Her skin felt overly sensitive and even the denim of the jeans was grating. It hurt to walk but she had no choice. There was this thing, sitting there, in the towel.

She had to get rid of it before anybody knew. If her father knew he would kill her. Here she was, ending up exactly like he hadn’t wanted her to. She had gone through an ordeal he had tried so hard to make sure never happened. A single mother at the age of sixteen. Worse, even, he would make her keep it, just like he made her mother keep her. She isn’t ready for a baby. Especially a baby that would belong to her father’s boyfriend of all people.

Clutching the towel close to her, she managed to get down the stairs and out the door without being detected. The garage was left unlocked, foolishly, by the brute. She grabbed a hammer, one of Launchpad’s hammers, and made short work of the egg on the garage’s cement floor. No need to completely demolish it. A couple of whacks were enough to roll it up into a less-distinguishable shape.

It looked no different than the ones they ate for breakfast at that stage. Mostly yoke. No visible signs of development. It smelled vaguely of iron but she wasn’t sure if that came from the white or the blood.

She couldn’t force herself to rinse the remains of her dead child off the hammer. She threw it into the towel with the rest of the mess and tossed it all into the outside trashcan.

Then she returned to bed.

The next few days were tough. She was still bleeding from the birth and a slight fever developed sometime the next afternoon. She went to school anyway, telling nobody about her symptoms. Who could she tell? She had no friends, nobody to turn to in a time of crisis. The boys she normally met with on her breaks continued to bug her, wanting to know why she wasn’t interested in their usual games. She told them to fuck off, she wasn’t some sex toy. It was her choice who she fucked, not theirs.

Within a couple of days the fever subsided. Her strength began to return. Still, whenever the maid served her eggs in the morning, she left them untouched, saying that she only had the stomach for toast this early. Launchpad walked by her often, not meeting her eyes. He mentioned something to her father about his hammer missing, asking if he took it for some reason.

“What would I use a hammer for?” Her father wondered, smirking. “Putting up a shelf for the Oscar I’m going to win next year?”

“Maybe I misplaced it.”

The bleeding stopped after a week. Inside, Gosalyn felt empty. She wondered if this is how all women felt after laying. Do they sense that something is missing? She had barely shown when it was inside her and it had been so quick, a positive of being an avian compared to that of a mammal, but somehow she feels strangely hollow inside. She tried to eat more to fill the emptiness but she never felt hungry enough to finish

Launchpad moved out a week and a half after Gosalyn gave birth. Her father moped around the house, forlorn.

“We’re not over,” he said with a pained smile. “He just said he had some stuff he needs to work through right now and he’d be better doing it on his own. I think he feels guilty about not working right now.”

Gosalyn was sure he felt guilty about something, her father just wasn’t aware of what. He sighed a lot, walking around the house as if searching for something that he had misplaced. William of Orange followed at his heels, mewing sadly.

A week after Launchpad left, Gosalyn returned from one of her tennis lessons to find her father watching the television. That isn’t to say he was watching TV, because he wasn’t. He was watching the surveillance cameras around the house. Something he barely ever did.

His face was wet.

“I…just wanted to watch Launchpad,” he explained through gulping breaths. “He spent so much time in the garage, I was just fast-forwarding through the old recordings and…”

Gosalyn watched herself destroy the egg in blurry, gray pixels. She watched it again and again. She hadn’t even realized she had been crying that night but the camera in the garage has an audio recorder and she could hear herself crying hysterically. Did she really sound that desperate that night? The crunching of the shell sounded like the crushing of bones, making her wince and grab reflexively at her wrist she had broken when she was eleven after a nasty fall in gym class.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to her dad. “I was afraid.”

“You never have to be afraid of me,” her father whispered back. His eyes were shining, dark. “I’ll always be here for you. I just wish you knew that.”

“Dad,” she got out before the first sob escaped. Then she was in his arms, not even knowing how she got there, grabbing at his shoulders, her arms around his neck. His arms were strong around him, so tight that she almost felt like she couldn’t breathe. Almost, but not quite, because her father loved her and would never hold her tight enough to risk hurting her. He was crying too, kissing her forehead, apologizing for not being around enough, telling her again and again that he wasn’t angry.

“I would never have let you suffer through that alone if I knew. All I’ve ever wanted in this world is to protect you.”

Sometimes keeping the truth from the ones you love is the only way to protect them.


End file.
